Raised Expectations

WooHoo! It's Fathers' Day! The Mate, father of two, has heard nothing from either the Montreal person or the younger, closer-at-hand person, who lives with his two moms. I suppose someone could have come over and popped an eggo in the toaster or taken him out to a ballgame but none of that has ever happened in the past so why break a perfect record?

I had a father once, a long time ago. He was an extremely handsome young man, a marathon dance competitor, in one incarnation. He grew into a portly, buzz cut drunk. Most of his drunkiness happened while I was away at school, so I only had to duck and dodge when I was home for vacations. My sister, younger, discovered the realm of sleep and was fully capable of logging twelve hours a day, if that's what it took to avoid him. Not that he ever laid a hand on us, except for spanking me once, one spank, when I was 11 or so and not inclined to regret whatever small sin I had committed. Only regretted being born the daughter of some jerk who spanked. Nope, dear old dad was only verbally abusive and, oh my, could he bear down on whatever personality flaw he'd selected for scrutiny! My bads were largely not being dutiful and not being beautiful.

The last time I saw dear old dad was right after the Manson family let loose on Sharon Tate and friends. We heard that news driving over the Bay Bridge, towards the SF airport, on our way to the midwest, where lurked my long-suffering mother and chain-smoking dad. A week was too long for a visit, but the kids and I were traveling on my parents' dimes, so we outstayed our desire to be there - scant at best. The last night, Dad and I closed some bar and wobbled home, second gear all the way, with the top down so the wind would keep us awake and we wouldn't drive off into the river running parallel to the road.

Dad poured himself another drink, sat down at the kitchen table, closed the pocket door to keep from disturbing Mom and the grandkids, and launched into his favorite topic: How I was wasting my life. Subtext: I owed it to him not to waste my life even though I'd already messed up to bad to recover, probably, by leaving my husband and attempting to live on air and junk vegetables from the farmers' market.

Ever since Dad discovered the joys of hectoring, I'd known that crying only made it worse. Silence sometimes worked. Rudeness could disarm him but had to be used cautiously. This particular night I just got mad and started yelling right back. Mom stood it for about half an hour before she padded out in her little slippers and gently told us to knock it off. Four hours later, as we drove to the airport, Dad pulled off the highway and puked. He stayed alive for two more years but I never saw him again. Not quite true: he shows up in my dreams sometimes, for no apparent reason.